Page 101 of Dragon Slayer

He went down to the great hall in a gold-trimmed blue kaftan and gold silk salvar, his hair done up in elaborate braids, woven through with jewels and tiny bells that chimed when he walked. His slippers had bells, too – not his usual, functional schoolboy boots, but fine leather slippers lined with cozy fur.

“Beautiful,” one of the slaves dared to tell him, just a warm whisper in his ear. The mirror proved that to be a true statement.

He fell into step with Vlad along the way, and Val did a double-take.

It wasn’t often that Vlad actually looked the part of a prince, with his hair tangled and his sharp cheekbones smudged with dirt from the training yard. He had no affection for finery; he would rather ride, and fight, and work with his hands. The sort of second son born for the battlefield, wrong-footed indoors amongst polite company.

But the slaves had attacked Vlad tonight with their oils, and combs, and abrasive soaps. He gleamed.

Twin braids hugged the curve of his skull, falling loose down the back of his neck, his hair thick and glossy and dark. Like lamp oil in the flickering torchlight. His kaftan was deep red, blood-colored, picked with both gold and silver. His salvar were white, tucked into buffed black riding boots. A heavy jeweled belt rested on his hips, hung with a ceremonial dagger, its hilt set with a massive ruby.

There was no scrubbing away his scowl, though. “What?” he demanded, hand settling on the dagger hilt in a gesture Val thought was unconscious.

“You look nice.”

Vlad snorted.

The great hall, with its ornate tiles and soaring columns, sparkled with torch and lantern light, a rainbow of colored reflections. Low, portable tables had been arranged in a double row down the center of the room, each lined with rugs for sitting. One stood apart, at the head of the room: a royal table for the young sultan and his father who’d rescued him in battle. Incense burned, undercut by the rich, savory smells of the food about to be served; between the tables stood decorative bowers twined with flowering vines, a thousand candles wavering in the breeze from the high windows. All of it like something from a fairy story.

Val stood, staring in quiet wonder, until Vlad took his arm and steered him in the direction a hurrying slave indicated. “Isn’t it beautiful?” he asked, leaning into Vlad’s side.

“No.”

They were seated at a table with the other hostages and the sons of some of the notable members of court. Several of them looked at Vlad with wide eyes, but quickly ducked their heads when Vlad’s gaze fell over them.

Oh, brother, Val thought.Why do you want everyone to be afraid of you?

The room slowly filled with diners. The regular court, a collection of Ottoman nobles, scribes, viziers, relatives, and shameless hangers-on – same as at any court across the world. Then there were the leaders who’d pledged loyalty to the boy sultan’s campaign, a mix of austere tribal lords and Mongols in furs. They’d come from all corners, all willing to pledge fealty to the Turks for the chance to smash the West.

Mehmet was the last to enter the hall; even his father was already seated. A collective hush, and then a turning of heads, a swiveling of bodies. A pointed murmur that moved through the room as a wave. The disgraced sultan entered with head held high, jewels glittering on every part of his person. Every inch royalty, from his crisp white turban, to his gold kaftan and salvar, to the crust of sapphires on the tops of his boots, and their pointed golden toes. A ring gleamed on every finger.

He’d grown tall and lean in his time away from Edirne, his face angular and handsome. He wore a close-trimmed auburn beard, and the green in his eyes was visible even from a distance – as was the shame. His bearing was arrogant and bored, but Val saw the single line pressed between his brows, the little lines of stress bracketing his mouth.

He was a proud, proud boy, but he was just that: a boy. And now his entire empire knew it; had watched his father go rushing to his rescue.

Val was startled by a low, pulsing growl beside him, and turned to look at his brother. Vlad’s jaw was clenched, his hands balled into fists where they rested on the tabletop. Nostrils flared, scenting the air.

“Brother,” Val whispered. He laid a hand on his arm. He’d caught Mehmet’s scent as well – vampire, male, threat, alpha – but his first inclination had been to duck down beneath the table, not to leap over it and start a brawl. “Please. You mustn’t.”

Vlad’s response was to bare his teeth and issue a real growl, chest heaving, head tipped back as he looked at–

Oh. Mehmet had stopped before their table.

Val tucked himself into his brother’s side. The boys across from them ducked their heads low over their empty plates, whites of their eyes showing. It grew quiet again, eerily so, and the loudest sound was Vlad’s growl.

There were members of the Ottoman court who knew what the Wallachian brothers were, but in this packed room, the majority thought they were only hostages princes, not immortals who drank the blood of living creatures. Vlad was exposing them. Startled glances came their way. A few guests lifted their heads, searching for the strange animal noise rolling across the polished floors.

“Vlad.” Val pinched him. Hard. Right in the soft part of his inner arm.

From above them, a chuckle. Val lifted his head, and the sultan was smiling at him, wide enough to flash his fangs.

His eyes danced. “It’s alright, little prince.” A purr underlined his voice. “Your brother doesn’t frighten me.” He extended one ringed hand, palm-up.

What did he…?

Why was he…?

Vlad’s hand clamped down on Val’s thigh, pinning him in place. “Don’t.”

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